My twenty has stopped matching to the twenties
from the kind motion pictures showed where they dance on heels
(i twisted the tip of my toe while standing in slippers)
together (in the panoramic pandemic, fluff bear has been with me through my coughs and ruffs)
roll in grass (fake green carpet, yellow check cloth, basket of tomatoes at the nth floor of a building is my sunday)
But this story is not a holder of a ricocheting carpet,
I'd rather have three spinning skateboard wheels.
A frog locked behind knows friendships well,
they hide in music and coffee and twenty year olds who
don't step out
but
live in enough
daydreams knowing that they will never have one.
in spins of finding lucky numbers,
i have lost zero to twenty digits out of 100will my twenty one year old poem be any better?
Painting by. Konstantin Korovin
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